How I Spent My Summer
An overdue report on the long past, the near past, and the present
Every year around this time, I think of an assignment my father gave to his new class of students during the first few days of school.
My dad taught art, then moved to Texas and American history when he returned to work after a debilitating five-year illness that would continue to affect him for the rest of his life. But even though he had burned out on his chosen craft while ill and did not feel like painting, drawing or sculpting much, his love and appreciation for art never abandoned him.
His back-to-school assignment was, in his eyes, a simple one with two benefits. It was both a path to an easy A for the students and an opportunity for him to get a snapshot of how the middle schoolers thought and worked.
All they had to do was redesign the Texas and American flags, using the current elements and colors in each. They didn’t have to be artists; all they had to do was follow that simple direction and they would receive an A.
For my dad, watching how the students approached the assignment provided insight into the type of class he would be teaching for the next 180 days. He could see the ones who took it seriously and the ones who didn’t. He could calm the nerves of the students who became anxious and see those who truly could give zero shits about his “stupid busywork.” And inevitably, he would see (and could later encourage) those who embraced this outside-the-box opportunity from the teacher whose head was permanently turned to the right at a painful angle.
I thought it was a stroke of genius, but I could not be happier that I didn’t have to finish this lesson for my dad. As much as I looked up to my father, I was terrible at art of any kind.
A Childhood Memory
Going back to school is, or at least it was for me, an often-miserable transition. At minimum, it takes a week or so for students, parents, and teachers to adjust, and it was made worse by the inevitable assignment I seemed to get every year: “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”
Summers were not much to write home about, especially in elementary and middle school. I spent significant portions with my grandparents in Longview, where my parents were raised, while my parents went around the country to various hospitals and specialists trying anything and everything to help my dad feel better. I spent time bowling with my OCD maternal step-grandmother and my aunt. I went to the movies — sometimes two or more in a day — as much as I could. I went into the “little house,” a storage area behind my grandparents’ place, and rummaged through the stacks of old Life magazines in the summer heat.
Connecting the Dots
As a nerdy kid growing up in a Gulf Coast petrochemical town, I did my best to fit in, but learned quickly that it was impossible. I became a chameleon, moving from group to group, avoiding the bullies and cliques that exist in every school.
I didn’t have any friends in Longview, and I would not have known how to make them anyway, so it was a pretty lonely experience. By the time I was 11, my paternal grandfather was sick, too.
Forty-seven years ago this week, my grandfather was hospitalized at Tyler Chest Hospital about 30 miles from Longview. My parents were in Los Angeles as my dad embarked on another experimental treatment that hopefully would help him return to work.
On August 16, 1977, just before the start of my sixth-grade year, I was sitting in the hospital lobby, swatting at flies. It was a typical sweltering East Texas summer day, which was one reason the flies had moved indoors. Hospital rules prevented 12-year-olds from visiting patient rooms and my grandfather was not in any shape to come down to the lobby. So I sat there bored out of my mind, killing those damn flies.
At some point late that afternoon, news started to spread that shook me to my adolescent core: Elvis Presley was dead at age 42.
Adolescents in the mid to late 1970s were not supposed to be Elvis fans, and the fact I was only added marks to my “nerd” badge. “Fat Elvis” had become a parody, a bloated yet hollow shell of himself even for those immersed in the 1950s nostalgia of the time.
But in a weird way, Elvis also had always felt like a member of my extended family.
I’m not sure that would have been the case if I had accurate information. As a kid, I didn’t understand why he had not been able to recover from his divorce, not realizing it was in large part because of guilt over self-inflicted wounds. I didn’t connect the dots when my parents returned from a trip to Las Vegas in 1975, having been disappointed in Presley’s concert because he looked and sounded “bad” — code, as it turns out, for overweight and stoned out of his mind.
All I knew, at age 12, is that people aren’t supposed to die at 42 unless they are at war or in some type of accident. People don’t die while sitting on the toilet in their bathroom, especially when they’re only five years older than my dad and six years older than my mom.
We left the hospital that day and went to Gibson’s, one of those catch-all department stores not far from my grandmother’s house. My grandmother bought me “Moody Blue,” Presley’s last studio album that came in blue vinyl, and I played it on my aunt’s turntable that night. Slopped in overdubbed strings, reverb and echo, with a curious choice of a live track (a cover of Olivia Newton John’s “Let Me Be There”) it was a far cry from his peak, and a peek into his tragic end.
The Summer of 2024
There’s a lot to write about the summer of 2024 — so much that I almost don’t know where to start.
Much of it has been great. Our youngest daughter, Emma, and her girlfriend Colby got engaged a couple of weeks ago. The entire family, minus Gaby and plus my mom, went to Durham, N.C., last month for the christening of our sweetheart Colin, Nick and Conner’s first-born and our second grandchild. Ben and Gaby performed on the Tony Awards for “Illinoise,” which drew strong audiences until its 16-week limited run ended this past Saturday. Almost all of our family — including my mom — and many of our close friends made it to New York to see that lovely little show.
Kate started training to fight again and had a very successful match this past weekend. Her husband, Matt, started his own business and is training to re-enter the ring as well. Our granddaughter, Marley, will be 18 months in a couple of weeks and remains a joy to behold.
Jill and I took our first post-Covid vacation abroad to Italy in late May. She has continued to astound me professionally and with her determination to significantly improve her health and well-being. I continue to be inspired by and in awe of her and have found myself working on my own health regimen — exercising more and, for the most part, eating better — as well.
At the same time, this summer also has brought a series of challenges and transitions. My sister, Matt’s father, and Gaby’s father have all faced significant health challenges. A good friend of mine, Eric, retired and moved with his wife to Richmond (a great move for them, but still an adjustment for everyone in their orbit here). Other friends have faced significant emotional, physical, and familial hardships. And several of my peers — professionals in their 40s to 60s — have suddenly found themselves laid off and without work, a feeling I remember all too well.
Speaking of work, the freelance has come in waves — nothing for weeks, then a fervent tsunami of activity, followed by wondering when or if the next assignment and payment will arrive. There hasn’t been any equilibrium or consistency this entire year — or really since Covid, if I’m being honest. It feels like a perpetual one step forward, two steps back, two steps forward, one step back.
And that feeling, given everything else that has been taking place, has played a significant role in why I haven’t been here more often.
Another Trip to Texas
This Friday, the anniversary of Elvis’ death, I will be back in Texas. This time, it will be to support my first cousin Melissa, who is dealing with a horrible, unimaginable loss — the death of her 34-year-old daughter, Jessica, in an automobile accident earlier this month.
I don’t have a large family. My parents were each one of two children, and their siblings had only two children (both on my mom’s side) between them. I haven’t seen one of my cousins in decades, so that leaves me with my mom, my dad’s sister, and Melissa.
Over the years, Missy and I have talked semi-frequently about the joys and challenges of raising children, especially as we watched them thrive and struggle at times to survive the hurdles and potholes of adolescence. It’s not always easy to raise children who are determined and passionate about carving their own distinct path in life, and I greatly value those conversations with the person who calls me “cuz.”
So when she asked me to help write and deliver the eulogy, the answer was an automatic yes.
As I worked on it Tuesday afternoon, coming on top of a packed weekend of family, travel, and three freelance writing assignments that had to be completed before I could leave, I decided to put on my headphones and cue up some music. A new box Elvis box set, “Memphis,” was released last week and I wanted to give it a listen.
Presley’s material has been packaged and repackaged so many times that you would think the cupboard would be bare by this point. (And it is, for the most part.) The lure of this box was a series of remastered and undubbed sessions from the last five years of his life.
Like I mentioned, those were troubled times for Presley, and I had no reason to expect anything revelatory. But the (mostly) raw sessions were surprisingly strong. What had been lost in all of the overdubs, the drugs, and the glop was the fact that Elvis still had the ability to carry a message to his audience.
As I worked to massage the notes Melissa had given me, I started thinking back to that day in the summer of 1977. In some respects, it was Presley’s death that introduced me viscerally to the concept of mortality at what now seems like so young an age. At that point in life, I feared what could happen to my father, but Presley’s death was the first time I understood life can be more fleeting than you imagine.
And it taught me, not for the last time, that you just have to appreciate what you’ve got.
Beautiful words. Much joy and then again heartbreak. I also vividly remember hearing of Elvis' death.
I'm sorry for the tragic loss of your cousin's child. I'm grateful that you can be there for Melissa now. The cliche is that the only constant is change, and your growing family is such a joyful change! So much going on for you. I love how you tell your tales and I'm very happy! We'll have to talk some more about that thrip to Italy! 💕